


A Man of His Word

by valsedenuit



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, M/M, Post Reichenbach, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-08
Updated: 2012-05-08
Packaged: 2017-11-05 01:02:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/400185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valsedenuit/pseuds/valsedenuit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John had always considered himself a man of his word. These days, however, promises meant little. It started out with breaking little commitments he'd made to himself. (“One more case.”) Then it extended to those around him. (“I'll pick up some milk, Mrs. Hudson.”) Then, finally, to those he loved. (“Don't worry, Harry. I'll call if something's wrong.”)There are some vows, however, that John couldn't bring himself to break.</p><p>Well, just the one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Man of His Word

**Author's Note:**

> Quick and dirty one-shot fic, written over cupcakes and tea and angsty Johnlock fanvids. Not beta'd in any way shape or form. Hope you enjoy!
> 
> Companion song: [Possibility by Lykke Li](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RvMeOllo_Vo)

The wind made John's ears ache. He pulled out his phone and held it up, fingers frozen and shaking.

 _May 4th, 2013_.

He tapped the screen with his thumb, but the date didn't change. The bright, cheerful light of the phone projected the anniversary of Sherlock's death back to him with a painful nonchalance.

Part of John held on to the hope that he might've gotten the day wrong. This was probably the hundredth time he'd checked since he woke up. Every time he glanced at his phone, he felt a new wave of disappointment. Then a strange relief. Today was the day.

After three long years, he'd finally join Sherlock.

He huffed out a breath, his throat tightening. _Best not to think about too much_.

The sound of traffic was surprisingly muffled by the wind and the five stories that separated him from the road below. He hadn't expected it to be so chilly in May, and so he had only worn a light sweater – the striped one, Sherlock's favourite - but since he knew the discomfort was temporary, he didn't mind.

It had been easy to get to the roof of Barts. All he had to do was sweet talk Molly, then ask if he could visit the roof (“to commemorate him”). She was reluctant at first (“you don't visit the cemetery anymore?”) but eventually fetched him a key, making him promise to return it before leaving the building.

A promise he couldn't keep, but... well, it wouldn't be the first time he broke a promise.

Strange, how easy it was to do, once you'd gotten into the habit. John had always considered himself a man of his word. These days, however, promises meant little. It started out with breaking little commitments he'd made to himself. (“One more case.”) Then it extended to those around him. (“I'll pick up some milk, Mrs. Hudson.”) Then, finally, to those he loved. (“Don't worry, Harry. I'll call if something's wrong.”)There are some vows, however, that John couldn't bring himself to break.

Well, just the one.

He'd made a promise, that day at the cemetery. No one had heard it. It would be so easy to just pretend it had never happened. To go home, put the kettle on, and go about his day. But for some reason... he couldn't do it. (He knew the reason.)

_"No one will ever convince me that you told me a lie."_

Those were the words he'd chosen. He had been so angry at Sherlock. Thinking back to it now, John almost laughed. He had been angry, and in pain, and the words had spilled out without a second thought. Mindless. Hardly a binding contract.

Still, it was a promise. The last one he'd given Sherlock. And to John, that meant something. ( _Ever the sentimentalist_ , Sherlock would think.)

__

__

__

__

__

_"No one will ever convince me that you told me a lie."_

__

For three years, those words had played on repeat in John's mind. It had been an easy vow to keep, at first. His faith in Sherlock was what kept him moving, working, living. But as the years passed, and the smaller pledges fell by the wayside, the tiniest veins of doubt were encroaching upon this, the final of frontiers. John may have slipped into apathy regarding a lot of things, but this was something he wasn't prepared to give up.

He didn't trust himself to stay steadfast to that promise, made years ago on a damp patch of cemetery grass. This was his way of ensuring he never broke it.

 

 

John flicked on the display of his phone again.

_May 4th, 2013._

It hadn't changed. It wasn't going to change. It was time.

He squeezed the phone in his fist, tightly, then tossed it behind him. The phone clattered noisily as it hit the cement roof and bounced once before settling on a resting spot. John tucked his hands into his armpits and took a few slow steps forward. The adrenaline rush thankfully steadied him – he didn't know if he could get back up if he stumbled on his way. His heart was trying to beat itself out of his chest, resounded like a thousand drums in his ears.

He stepped up onto the ledge.

He couldn't bear to look down for the moment, so he stared straight ahead. His eyes were watering, but they weren't tears. _Stupid wind_.

He heard raised voices from the street below, but he couldn't make any of their words out. Frantic yelling, muffled by the wind. They'd likely spotted him by now. That was fine. It's not like they'd make it up in time to stop him. He'd planned it well. Sherlock would be proud. He finally glanced down. There were a few cars pulled up to the emergency entrance. _Ah, so that's what the commotion was about. An accident of some sort? A pregnant woman rushed to the delivery room?_

John liked that idea. Life in death. _At least that's something_.

A few strangers were now looking up, pointing and covering their mouths in shock, as they realized that there was a man perched on the edge of the roof. They couldn't decide where to look, at John or into Barts, where the passengers of the now empty cars had disappeared. _Given the choice, do you gaze at death, or life?_ He wondered if some of those people had been there, three years ago, when he was in their place. Watching the man on the roof. Helpless. He hadn't been given the luxury of choice.

John took a few deep breaths. He could hear his heartbeat in his ears again. His time was up. By now someone was likely on their way up to stop him.

As if on cue, he heard banging against the metal door. Luckily, he'd barricaded it (not very strongly, though) in case Molly or someone else came to check on him. John knew he had only a few moments. He breathed in, spreading his arms out. A little dramatic for his tastes, but he felt it was appropriate. A tribute to the man who'd saved him.The man he'd loved. The man he was finally choosing to follow.

He lifted his right foot off the ledge.

He heard the door burst open, but it was too late for them to do anything. John was already leaning forward, and he felt the tug of gravity lure him down to the ground, just as an all-too-familiar voice rang out from behind him, cutting through the wind.

“JOHN!”

John's heart sank as he felt the pang of recognition. _Sherlock_. But he was helpless, now.

Rush of air, turn of the world, silence.

_I kept my promise, Sherlock. Now keep me._


End file.
